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THE SKIPPER’S FLEET 






HOVE UP BY THE TIDE 





PORTLAND 
SMITH & SALE 
1917 





CONTENTS 


The Farmhouse, 

. 3 

Sophie, .... 

11 

The Old Captain, . 

• 19 

Squire Doolittle, 

25 

Dick of the Island, 

. 31 

The New Preacher, 

35 

Our Skipper, 

. 41 

On Our Wharf, . 

45 




















































































































a ■ 






































































































£ 0e Sarm^ouge 



THE FARMHOUSE 


O UR island is one of the rare spots 
in the bay; there isn’t another 
like it. Near enough to civiliza- 
tion to be livable and yet far enough 
away to make life as simple as need be. 
Our neighbors are the real kind that care, 
and for whom we have a sincere affection. 

In the first days of our going to the 
island there was only one farmhouse on 
our end of it; a big weather beaten affair 
in which lived a large family of ever 
increasing size. Their surname was 
Toothacre. 

We well remember those early days 
when we used to start down the bay in 
an old sail boat, the happiest family in 
the world. Just off the point, we would 
signal the farmhouse, for the Toothacres 
would be looking for us, and out of the 
house would tumble — such an array of 
youngsters of all imaginable ages, looking 
like an advertisement of “ Kiddies, As- 
sorted Sizes.” Down the embankment 


4 


THE FARMHOUSE 


they would fly, leaving their parents to 
make a more dignified descent. As soon 
as we were within hailing distance, the 
oldest boy, he of uncertain brilliancy, 
would shout, not one year but every 
year, “ Hello! Glad to see you! The cat’s 
hed kittens, the hen’s hed chickens, the 
cow’s hed a calf, and Ma’s hed a baby.” 
We always knew what was coming and 
our boys began as soon as we cited the 
point, “The cat’s hed kittens, the hen’s 
hed chickens, the cow’s hed a calf, and 
Ma’s hed a baby.” Every summer the 
facts were of the same importance, news 
was scarce in the winter months. We 
would have been real disappointed if 
each year had not brought the proper 
increase. 

Mamie Jane, one of the Toothacre’s 
small girls, was so bashful we didn’t dare 
speak to her for fear of frightening her 
to death. Her oldest sister works in 
Bangor, and on one occasion when she 
came down on a visit she brought Mamie 
Jane a pair of silk mitts. It was at this 
time the Zionists were having camp- 


THE FARMHOUSE 


5 


meetings on one of the other islands, 
and we used to go over by the motorboat 
full. One of the girls decided to go over 
and take Mamie Jane with her to the 
meeting, so Mother Toothacre dressed 
Mamie Jane all up as nice as could be, — 
mitts and all. She started off feeling as 
if she were made, but praying nobody 
would speak to her. Being the only little 
girl there everybody said, “Hello! Mamie 
Jane.” Each one who spoke to her, 
scared her so that she took a chew out of 
her mitts, — and she was so proud of them, 
too. 

Will you believe me, when she got 
home, there wasn’t a thing left of those 
mitts, and she was worn out, all on 
account of their saying, “Hello! Mamie 
Jane.” 

Two of the Toothacre boys, Henry 
and Ray, were regular mischiefs. A good 
looking apple-tree was too much for 
them, seeing must be having. One of our 
neighbors, Sophie, had some grand apple 
trees, just weighed down with big red 
apples in the season. She had told them 


6 


THE FARMHOUSE 


if they dared to “tech” them, she would 
“whale the life” out of them. One day, 
they thought she was away, so Henry 
stationed himself at the foot of the tree, 
and Ray climbed it and was filling his 
pockets. All of a sudden, they heard 
Sophie coming, — and when Sophie starts 
coming she’s there before you have time 
to think what you’re going to do when 
she does come. Henry, a fat little chap, 
ran as fast as two legs could carry him. 
He and Ray have an agreement that he 
shall always begin to run whether he 
needs to or not, for fear he might need to 
and not get started. So Henry ran, but 
Ray didn’t have time to get down, — so 
there he was! Sophie began to tell what 
she was going to do to him, all the time 
she was taking hold of his pants and 
pulling. He is kind of slim and he didn’t 
much like to risk what she might do, so 
he wriggled out of his pants and flew for 
the woods. 

Now it isn’t the customary thing for 
small boys even, to stroll down the road 
in shirt alone, so Sophie rather had it on 


THE FARMHOUSE 


7 


them. They stayed in the woods till dark, 
and at last, Henry, looking very white, 
went over to Sophie's house and promised 
to insure her trees against Ray and him- 
self, for Ray’s pants. Sophie thought 
they had been punished enough; so she 
gave the pants to Henry. She said she 
“most bust out laffin’, he looked so 
dejected,” — and a fat boy with a sad 
look, is the funniest thing in the world. 








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SOPHIE 


D IDN’T I tell you who Sophie is? 
She is Dan Ludlow’s daughter; 
and my black-eyed neighbor — a 
neighbor to be proud of — the kind you 
find sitting down at nine o’clock in the 
morning. Before we are up, Sophie has 
done a day’s work — washing, odd chores, 
big baking, and now is ready to slap her 
iron over a big ironing. 

You don’t live where there are such 
smart women, — I don’t, except in the 
summer. I go over often, for I am inter- 
ested in all the happenings of the winter, 
and Sophie can give me a real account 
of them. “What kind of a winter have 
you had?” I ask. 

“Well, between them folks that ought 
to hev died an’ didn’t, an’ them folks 
that shouldn’t hev died an’ did, I’ve 
hed an awful busy winter. I thought I ’d 
never get off the island to visit my mother 
on the mainland. 


12 


SOPHIE 


“You know them Nevinses? He come 
over one day an’ sed his wife was sick, — 
she hed always been one of them kind 
that pulled herself into her shell an’ 
hung there. Of course, I hustled right 
along over there.” (Of course, Sophie 
did, for a kinder soul never lived.) 

“Things were pretty bad; what does 
men folks know about takin’ care of sick 
folks? I did all I could, fixed her up as if 
she hed been my own mother. Mrs. 
Nevins has some daughters down Boston 
way, an’ believe me, they think they 
know all Boston full. Of course, when 
they knew the old lady was sick, they 
come, though they hed made themselves 
mighty scarce when the old lady was 
well. Sometimes, I think the more learnin’ 
folks hev, the less real human feelin’ they 
show their folks. But one thing those 
girls didn’t know was this, that if the 
old lady died, she hed to be laid out. 
The mornin’ she died, — she knew well 
enough she was goin’ to pass on, — she 
sez real faint like, 'You hed better send 
for Sophie. ’ So they come for me, an’ I 


SOPHIE 


13 


went over. After she hed breathed her 
last, I sez to Mandy, her daughter, ‘She’s 
got to be laid out.’ She sez real nippin’, 
‘Ain’t there an undertaker?’ That riled 
me, I sez, ‘Mandy, don’t put on airs to 
me; you was raised on this island as 
much as I was. When did you ever hear 
of an undertaker around these parts? 
Jest because you don’t know how to lay 
your poor mother out, don’t be so upity, 
I do know how an’ I will. ’ 

“So we fixed the body up all nice, an’ 
she made a handsome corp, if I do say 
so. Then I sez to Mandy, ‘We’ve got to 
hev two boards to lay her out on.’ Mandy 
sez, ‘Don’t ask father, he’d feel bad.’ 
The folks was all settin’ roun’ in the 
settin’ room, mournin’, so I sez to her, 
‘Perhaps we could find two boards suit- 
able up in the attic chamber.’ We took 
up a couple an’ after the old lady was 
laid out on them, I sez, ‘Mandy, we 
ought to take this beddin’ somewheres.’ 
So we thought of the attic chamber 
again ; but that poor thing fergit she hed 
took up the boards, an’ what she do 


14 


SOPHIE 


but put her foot right through the plas- 
terin', an' there was her leg ahangin’ 
right down among the mourners. She sez 
'Sophie, don't you laff.’ I sez, 'Mandy, 
I’d laff if you hed killed yourself.’ We 
hed an awful time gettin’ her leg up. 

"They asked me to run the funeral 
but I said, 'No, I’d get someone,’ — for 
someone hed ought to run it. I found 
out they hed gone an’ hired a man to 
haul the coffin over from the boat, an’ 
they hed been tax-payers as long as any- 
body an’ hed jest as good a right to hev 
their casket hauled as anyone. I asked 
Asa Perkins if he’d run the funeral, an’ 
I s’posed he’d tend to it, but when I got 
there there wasn’t a soul in charge. Asa 
said he couldn’t find anybody with 
gumption enough to run a funeral on the 
island, an’ he was so troubled with 
rheumatiz himself, he wasn’t able. I 
went out an’ asked Nat Doane, he that 
drives the hearse, he said he couldn’t 
’cause the hearse horse was too frisky to 
leave. If I didn’t hev to run that funeral, 
call off the mourners an’ all!” 


SOPHIE 


15 


No one knows better than I do that it 
was well done if left in Sophie’s capable 
hands. 



Capfatn 


THE OLD CAPTAIN 


O LD Captain Lane wasn’t crazy 
about his wife’s family. Queer 
isn’t it, how often this happens? 
If Grandma Lane, — we all call her Grand- 
ma, — had been over-vigorous in her 
efficient management, he’d get out back 
of the fish house and whistle defiantly, 
whittling like mad, or maybe shocking 
clams as if for a regiment. And if you 
happened by and were a sympathetic 
listener, he would begin, “Funny, ain’t 
it, about folks?” He never said one 
unkind word about Grandma Lane, but 
“folks” is kind of general, now isn’t it? 
“Funny about folks.” 

“Grandma Lane’s father was a peculiar 
man, real sort of sissified, my pa told me. 
Jonsie Loud was his name (my wife’s 
name was Loud before we was hitched). 
When he an’ pa was boys together, 
Fourth of July was a regular day , more’n 
Christmas even. The boys would save 


20 


THE OLD CAPTAIN 


an’ save for the day, an’ they’d all chip 
in together an’ buy the doggondest 
loudest lot of stuff that ever was. Wal, 
I guessed it was most a point of honor 
with ’em to put in every cent they could 
scratch. 

“Wal, now what did Jonsie Loud do, 
come the Fourth, but take his quarter 
an’ go buy him some Cologney water to 
tract ’tention of the girls at the John 
Brown’s party on Fourth o’ July night. 
Wal, he got himself up like a full-rigged 
ship under sail, jest irregardless, an’ he 
was some soaked with the Cologney 
water. The gals hed hern tell o’ his mean- 
ness an’ they never sed a word. He got 
madder an’ madder ’cause the girls didn’t 
say nothin’ ’bout his stylish smell, so, 
at last, he sez, kind o’ haughty like, 'Ef 
you girls happen to smell anythin’, it’s 
me.’ He got all the ’tention he wanted 
right off, ’cause one o’ the girls sez, ‘I 
seem to smell a bit o’ pork fryin’.’ ” 

The old captain grew pleasanter and 
pleasanter as the story progressed; and 
his merry chuckle at Jonsie Loud’s dis- 


THE OLD CAPTAIN 


21 


comfiture made his voice very cheery 
when Grandma Lane called out the back 
door, “Pa, I want you.” “Yes, Ma, I 
want you, too,” he replied. 


4 


Inquire ©ooftfffe 


















SQUIRE DOOLITTLE 


T HERE is a lawyer on our island, a 
clean, kindly soul, keen of wit and 
generous of heart. One famous 
town meeting, I am told, the question 
of buying a real dressy hearse was under 
discussion. The argument waxed fast 
and furious between Squire Doolittle 
and the town clerk. Both of these had 
passed the threescore year and ten mile- 
stone a wee bit; but, in the heat of the 
question under discussion, the town clerk 
went back in his mind to the time when 
the Squire was only Si Doolittle, the 
island school’s mischief-maker, and he 
shouted, in a most unseemly manner, 
“Si Doolittle, you’ve got enough brass 
in your head to make a brass kettle.” 
Quickly, oh, so quickly, came the response 
“And you, Job Hascomb, hev got enough 
sap in your head to fill it.” It almost 
broke up the town meeting. 


26 


SQUIRE DOOLITTLE 


Speaking of the squire, I ’ll never forget 
when old Captain Hallet died. The old 
captain’s widow was so close you scarcely 
liked to ask her for a drink of plain water 
for fear you’d get skimped on it. The 
squire sort of pitied her and tried to help 
her, and he had quite a time straighten- 
ing out the captain’s estate and effects. 
It took days of time and heaps of trouble; 
but at last, the squire had things in 
fairly ship-shape order and told the 
Widow Hallet he was all through. 

She was a real “Victorian” weeper, 
so she sat there on the parlor sofa weeping 
and telling him how grateful she was, 
how he had been “most kinder ’n a 
brother.” Toward the end of her “grati- 
tudian,” she said, ‘Squire, I want to 
give you somethin’ as a keepsake of the 
cap’n, somethin’ real personal, you hev 
been so kind. I ’ve thought a good deal, 
an’ I’ve decided it ain’t worth it’s value 
with you, an’ I’m goin’ to make you a 
present of the cap’n’s tooth brush. He’s 
hed it most five years; an’ I’ve seen him 
often of a Sunday mornin’ a settin’ by 


SQUIRE DOOLITTLE 


27 


the kitchen sink a cleanin’ of his uppers 
an’ his lowers. He never used it any 
other time. An’ I don’t know of a soul 
I’d ruther ’d hev it than you that has 
been so kind.” 


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DICK OF THE ISLAND 


D ID you ever see “Dick of the 
Island?” 

He isn’t a sailor lad or an old 
dog; he’s the only horse on the island. 
Take off your hat to him; take my word 
for it, he is the most popular horse you 
ever heard of. 

Being the only one of his kind, we 
view him with a feeling of awe. You 
city folks rush to the window if an 
elephant goes by, because there aren’t 
many; so we rush to the window when 
someone cries that Dick is going by. 
For it may mean the doctor for a neigh- 
bor, or it may mean that swell guy none 
of us like because he doesn’t fit in, has 
made up his mind to leave on the next 
boat. 

Sometimes it means sadness, — Dick is 
going for the minister, for some island 
neighbor is getting ready for his last port. 
We wonder if old Dick knows how impor- 
tant he is. 


32 


DICK OF THE ISLAND 


We can all drive him, for it would be 
beneath his dignity to caper. We always 
have to take a book along with us, 
because the only way we can get any- 
thing resembling speed out of him is to 
bang a book on the bottom of the wagon. 

We almost suspect Dick must have 
had aspirations in his youth, — so long 
ago, — to be a college mascot or some- 
thing of the sort. Who can tell? But, 
like so many of us, he is doing his duty 
in the field he is called to labor in, and 
he could not have been more useful any- 
where. 

44 Oh! Some may cheer for Black Beauty, and some to 
Nancy Hanks be true; 

But give us folks on the island, old Dick, between me 
and you.” 


Zfyt (Ttexo $reac0e* 



THE NEW PREACHER 


T HERE ’S a new preacher on the 
island since we were here last year. 
He is young and it’s his first parish. 
He has the love of God in his heart and 
a joyful enthusiasm, a gladness for the 
opportunity at last to see his theories 
put into practice. 

On the island we have a fine burying- 
ground with an iron fence all around it. 
Altogether, it is a most self-respecting 
cemetery; however, we don’t call it that; 
it is just the burying-ground. The grass 
doesn’t grow as it ought to there, for 
you see we don’t go in much for lawns 
on the island. In summer, we are too 
busy fishing, and in winter, there isn’t 
a chance. This preacher must have lived 
where they were interested in that sort 
of thing. We hadn’t ever soiled our 
island with the vile smell of fertilizer, 
that, on the mainland, is smelt to the 
smellers’ confusion. So, wishing to sur- 
prise us and beautify the burying- 


36 


THE NEW PREACHER 


ground, it being next to the church, he 
put on some fertilizer. 

Now Cyrus Doolittle had been buried 
a week back. Well, the first thing we 
knew, when the neighbors began to go 
by that burying-ground, such a smell as 
never was, met their noses (we don't 
have nostrils on the island. No one ought 
to have, anywhere plain nose is good 
enough and always has been.) What 
could it be? It was awful! 

At last we came to the conclusion, 
Sh — It must be Cy Doolittle — that he 
wasn’t buried deep enough. How ever 
could we tell the family? We got together 
after church in solemn groups; at last, 
we thought best to get the preacher to 
tell Cy’s folks. You ought to have seen 
his face! I guess he felt kind of bad, 
along of his wanting to surprise us with 
the lawn. He had to tell us that it was 
the fertilizer that smelt. Weren’t we 
relieved! You see none of us really 
hankered for the job of telling the Doo- 
little boys that their father wasn’t buried 
deep enough. 


THE NEW PREACHER 


37 


That makes me think, we have a 
sewing circle on the island and if you 
happen to be new, you get talked about, 
good and plenty. If you happen to be 
new, take my advice, join right away, 
go first and stay ’til the last. 

The minister has just been married. 
She is a nice little thing; they say she 
has a college education. We don’t know 
anything about her, but we are hoping 
someone will come here from her home 
town; then I guess we’ll find out some- 
thing about her, “If those that’s used to 
pumpin’ take hold as they ought.” She 
wears a pin, always; it has P. X. on it 
and that’s all. How we puzzled over it; 
of course, we don’t know anything about 
her before she came here to the island, 
but we’ve about made up our minds it’s 
the initials of her maiden name; but 
what her maiden name may have been 
puzzles us. 










4 









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OUR SKIPPER 


W E had a boat one summer, the 
skipper of which was a typical 
fisherman and a good friend of 

ours. 

We were coming down the Sound right 
into a beautiful sunset. I had been 
silent some time; but it isn’t nice to be 
silent for long, as it seems stuck-up. 

My friend had followed the sea all the 
days of his life; but he had not married, 
which is a bit unusual among our island 
folk. At last I voiced the wonder I had 
felt, by saying, “ Captain, why didn’t 
you marry? Surely you are good looking 
enough.” 

“Wal, Miss Gould, it do seem funny 
and I don’t believe I scarce know, myself. 
But you see I never hed but one girl an’ 
those were the days I ust to come in the 
port of Boston. She was a pretty nice 
sort of girl an’ a good-looker, too; always 
feel kind of ’shamed when I think of her; 
but p’raps when you hear all ’bout it, 


42 


OUR SKIPPER 


you won’t think it so strange, but kind 
of human-like. 

“I’d been courtin’ her ’bout every 
time I came in to Boston. Wal, this 
particler night, I took her to a dance; 
we didn’t get back very early, an’ bein’ 
as it was some warm night, we set on the 
piazza until pretty late, an’ jest ’bout 
time I was agoin’ to leave, like a cussed 
fool, I up an’ kissed her. I went home 
feelin’ rather pleased with myself. 

“’Bout evenin’ the next day, the fellers 
what run the small-pox house called 
’round an’ wanted me to help take my 
girl of the night before, to the pest-house. 
I s’pose I’d ought to felt real sorry for 
the poor thing, but I was considerable 
taken up thinkin’ how I ’d look all pocked 
up with small-pox. I kind o’ took it for 
a sign that the Lord didn’t want me 
’roun’ kissin’ girls, an’ I never hev sence. 

“ I guess I ’m so darned scart I dassent. 
That’s why I never got married, ’cause, 
in our part of the world, kissin’ goes with 
courtin’; and never again, for this old 
salt.” 


dn £)ur 


ON OUR WHARF 


W E have two neighbors; one, the 
island tax collector, the other, 
the president of the Ladies’ Aid. 
Down at the wharf, waiting for the 
boat, we all get very chummy. We tell 
our secrets and we don’t care who knows 
them, for we know there isn’t any one 
within hearing distance who isn’t vitally 
interested in all that interests us. 

The tax collector was telling us how 
the “ vegitable that was considered poison 
yesterday was et the next day.” As he 
is very “deef,” as we say on the island, 
it was said loud enough to be heard 
almost to the city, where they wouldn’t 
have cared at all as we did. 

Then the voice of the president of the 
Ladies’ Aid was heard; she is “deef” too, 
so we could hear both sides of the con- 
versation. In other places we often miss 
the other side. The president was remi- 
niscing, “I shall never forget the first 
time I et tomatoes, I ’d allers heard they 


46 


ON OUR WHARF 


was poison and I believed it too. I was 
down to my darter’s in the settle and a 
mess of tomatoes was brought in to the 
table (yes, she keeps hired help). My 
darter hed company; they passed to me, 
an’ course I had to take some or show 
my ignorance. I got a piece in my mouth 
an’ I sez to myself, ‘Is this goin’ up or 
down? If it goes up, what will my darter 
say, an’ if it goes down, what will happen 
to me?’ ” 

A rosy-cheeked friend then had the 
wharf, so to speak: “Do you remember 
Lizzie Anne, she that laid down on me 
all last summer?” We did. “The only 
time I got up to the city this winter, — 
you know I ain’t given to gaddin’ much, — 
I went up in the early boat so as to make 
a good day of it. Cy saw me off; he 
warn’t fishin’ that day. I shopped all 
the mornin’, then ’bout ’leven o’clock I 
wandered along up to Lizzie Anne’s, 
thinkin’ I’d be some welcome along of 
her hangin’ out here all summer. 

“When I got there, I didn’t see no 
welcome on the mat large enough so you 


ON OUR WHARF 


47 


could see it when she opened the door; 
but I was so tired after shoppin’ all the 
mornin’, and tryin’ to run acrost the 
street afore one of those squarkin’ ma- 
chines caught me, I sez to myself, ‘She 
may hev neuralgy or a toothache, I'll 
set down a spell, an’ at least, hev a bite, 
if I hev to git it myself.’ Well, I set an’ 
I set an’ she didn’t warm up a bit. Did 
she say anythin’ about anythin’ to eat? 
No sir! I set ’til most twelve o’clock an’ 
I couldn’t, in all manners, set there like 
a pauper, another minute; so I went to 
the Dairy Lunch an’ treated myself to 
a ham sandwich.” 

We all knew Lizzie Anne; and we felt 
the slight for our friend. 

Then Captain Haines spoke up, “I 
never did like the cut o’ her jib, so I 
guess I ain’t no jedge o’ her. Whatever 
she did, if ’twas as right as rain, ’twouldn’t 
look good to me; and this sartinly is 
about the doggondest thing I ever heard 
of. But, as I said, I guess I hedn’t better 
jedge.” 

“Hev you seen the store-boy this 


48 


ON OUR WHARF 


mornin’? I meant to left my order under 
the clam basket, out backen our shed 
door, afore I come down to the wharf. 
They say his name is Rogue, at least, 
they call him that over to the store.’ ’ 

“ Kinder a takin’ name, ain’t it?” says 
our island wag, an old man with one leg 
lost years ago; where , — is a matter of the 
day and how he feels. Why always lose, 
even a leg, in the same place? It would 
only be tiresome, for, as it is, the where 
he lost it is dependent on the weather 
or any small accident of thought on his 
part. 

“I don’t believe that ere Rogue is 
bright,” says an old lady. “I asked him 
tother day if he hed any hand soap, an’ 
he sez, ‘No, they ust to hev it, but the 
summer folks kep a buyin’ it an’ they 
couldn’t keep any so they got tired 
orderin’ it.’ ” 

“Hev you seen Perkins lately, Uncle 
Job?” “No, I haint, and what’s more I 
don’t want to. Every time he sets eyes 
on me he takes holt my coat and hangs 
holt until you’re plumb tired, makin’ a 


ON OUR WHARF 


49 


reg’lar trouble bucket of you. An’ I fer 
one hate it. When I see him cornin’, I 
jest hike — some folks is handy as trouble 
buckets, but it haint in my line. For 
Heaven’s sake, here comes Jabe, — what’s 
he all churned up ’bout, the boat ain’t 
even cited yet.” And sure enough breez- 
ing down the wharf comes Jabe Bascomb 
just bristling with news. Breathlessly he 
tells us, “I jest hearn tell that Marther 
Tate is a widder and I thought you’d 
ought to know it, ’fore you started for 
the city.” 

“You don’t say, Tom Tate’s dead 
enough to bury at last,” says Captain 
Ludlow. “I can remember well time we 
was all inlistin’ as they be now. We was 
all ready to answer to our country’s call. 
Tom Tate was a goin’ to inlist as fast as 
anybody, we all knew him passin’ well, 
so we kept our weather eye out. Speakin’ 
as they do about pikers, Piker was his 
middle name. You could bet a basket o’ 
clams to a pot o’ lobsters when there was 
any real fightin’ goin’ on he was to the 
rear helpin’ right smart around the 


50 


ON OUR WHARF 


provision wagon. But I remember well 
when we come sailin’ home, battle-scarred 
veterans, and a lookin’ it, too; the folks 
was givin’ us a real grand welcome, and 
at the prow of everythin’ marched Tom 
Tate as big as Billy-be-darned, makin’ 
the loudest noise of any of us. He hed 
all the girls by the ears a settin’ roun’ an’ 
tellin’ o’ this big battle an’ that, as if he 
hed planned them all. We boys knew 
he hed never seen service. 

“Course as a neighbor I am willin’ to 
dig an’ haul at the buryin’ ” says Jabe, 
“but I’ll be clam-chowdered as a Grand 
Army veteran as has a right to be, if I 
feel called upon to mourn.” And we all 
agreed with our old friend. 

Somehow down on the wharf, when we 
all sit round on old kegs or any other 
seat at all, there seems a nearness to 
each other’s lives. We are glad that all 
the world isn’t dollar seeking. But here 
where the winds blow free and there’s a 
tang of salt in the air, where the fisher- 
men still mend their nets as of old, we 
have an interest in each other’s lives, 


ON OUR WHARF 


51 


and as it was taught by the Friend of the 
fisherman — we try to love our neighbor 
as ourselves. 
































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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



